


Wandered through the willows

by Blossomdriver



Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dishonored 1, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Minor Injuries, Selectively Mute Corvo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blossomdriver/pseuds/Blossomdriver
Summary: When Geralt is heading to Kaer Morhen for the winter, he overhears talk of a rat plague and the death of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin.And he can't shake the feeling that there is something else going on in Dunwall
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Wandered through the willows

Geralt's ribs ached as he pulled Roach along - The mare keeping her head lowered. Her hooves making a clicking against the stone road as the two navigated through the town.

It was still a two-week ride to Kaer Morhen and if the wound that burned hot and fresh against Geralt skin - hidden behind all of his armor was to say anything about it. It was that the trip was going to take a little longer than he expected it to.

There is a small inn nestled in the farther end of town. He didn't have time to question why the Inn was placed so far out of reach from town. Because another surge of pain rolled down his side, clamping his jaw shut tightly before a painful hiss can pass through his teeth.

Roach nudges her head lightly against Geralt's shoulder - avoided making contact with the injured side. The Witcher could tell that his horse was worried about him and a dry laugh comes from his chest.

"I'm fine," Geralt lies - suppressing the urge to wince from the pain. And he knows that Roach is fully aware of it. But because Roach is a horse and not a person, she can't call his bluff. 

Instead, the horse can just silently judge the Witcher. He doesn’t even have to look behind him to know that she’s doing it. He rolls his eyes as they continue the walk.

Once arriving at the tavern and Roach was tied to a pole in the stable. Geralt heads inside.

A few heads turn to look at the Witcher as he steps through the door. It was mid-afternoon and there were only a few groups in the tavern. The few that had turned their head to look at Geralt paid him no mind, quick to return to what they were doing before.

Geralt heads for the counter, eyes blank and face devoiding any emotion. 

The man behind the counter turns around - a mug in one hand and cloth in the other.

"I would like a room for the night." Geralt's words are more forces and harsher than he would have wanted them to be, yet he doesn't have time to catch himself from doing it. 

"Sorry, don't have any." The man's curt speech doesn't throw Geralt off-guard. The Witcher had grown so used to this behavior it just seems like a natural response as anything else. 

His hand twitches at his side of a split second. The sudden urge to use Axii and have the man think otherwise. 

There are too many eyes in the tavern, someone would be bound to notice that he did something and he would be kicked out in an instant. Not to mention he is better than this, there is a different method that will yield the same response. 

He digs into the pouch strapped to his belt and fishes out a handful of coins. Setting it down on the counter right in front of the man. Just so he knows it will grab his attention. 

"I'm sure this would be enough for a room?" Geralt hides the slight amount of amusement in his voice when he sees how fast the man is to grab for it.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it, there should be one room available,”  _ Perfect. _ “Far end of the hall on the left.” And that’s all Geralt needs to hear. Giving the man a nod he turns on his heels and heads for the rooms. 

_ “Did you hear about that Empress Jessamine,”  _

_ “Who?” The other voice questioned. _

_ “She was an Empress off in Dunwall, died 6 months ago, just heard about it from someone the other day.” _

_ “So, how’d she die?” _

_ “Murdered, they say it was the Royal Protector did it, the daughter has gone missing too.”  _

_ “Wait, Dunwall, that’s sounds familiar, isn’t that the place that’s dealing with the Rat Plague.” _

_ “That’s the place.”  _

The rest of the conversation trails off as Geralt makes it to the end off the hall. Stopping right before his room with his hand lingering on the doorknob.

Geralt had heard of Dunwall before - part of a set of Isle's off the south of the Continent. There weren't too many people who were from there who made it over to the Continent and vise Versa.

Perhaps maybe that is the fact of why this was the first he was hearing of this. It was rare that any information from the Isle made it this far inwards.

He doesn't have much time to dwell on that fact any longer because the pain in his ribs is starting to worsen. 

Stepping into the room, Geralt drops his bag by the door and crosses the room. Peeling away the top layer of his armor as it falls to a pile on the floor next to the bed. 

Above the desk that was wedged into the corner rested a medium size mirror. Geralt walked over to it and this was the first time he was seeing the injury clearly. 

Blooming across the left side of his ribcage was a large purple and yellow bruise. A scar was resting in the center of it all, though it was a few days old at this point. Already showing signs that it was healing. 

The Witcher felt somewhat grateful that the injuries weren’t as worse than they felt. In a few days, they will be fully healed and Geralt wouldn't be behind on his journey to Kaer Morhen.

In the meantime, Geralt draws himself a bath, being extra careful when cleaning around his wounds. He scrubs at his hair and dunks his head under the water to rid of the dried blood that clung to his hair. 

When Geralt is done with his bath and his wounds have been dressed, he lays on the bed. 

No matter how much he tried, his thoughts kept coming back to the conversation he had overheard. 

About a rat plague, a dead Empress, and a Royal Protector at fault.

Geralt had never been to the Isles, let alone to Dunwall. Why was he suddenly caring about it?

Because something in his heart and bones told him it wasn’t that simple.

_“Fuck.”_ Geralt said against gritted teeth as he shut his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> What is canon? An amalgamation of different source materials strung together for my own amusement.
> 
> How do we go from medieval to victorian age? who cares I'm here for fun, not for things to make sense.
> 
> EDIT: So this fic was meant to take place within the Witcher TV timeline but I've completely scrapped that idea and it now takes solely within The Witcher game!verse (Mostly during Witcher 1)


End file.
